Phenomena
by Jacal Ste. Worme
Summary: Bamon. A contemplative vignette about a sex-less Bamon date.


AN: I couldn't help it. Excuse the tenses; I know I'm doing this again carelessly. Btw, this is, yet again, a vignette. Hope the Bamon fans will like this shot. I miss Bamon so much that I just had to write this. We need to produce more Bamon fics, shippers! It's a must! Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

_Men themselves have wondered_  
_What they see in me._  
_They try so much_  
_But they can't touch_  
_My inner mystery._

_-Maya Angelou's Phenomenal Woman_

* * *

The moment Bonnie steps into the Mystic Grill, all eyes turn to her. Men and women alike stare unashamed, and she tries not to notice the way people are beguiled. She holds her breath as she finds her dark-headed date by the counter, sporting his usual black attire and a glass of bourbon. She knows he knows she just arrived, but she knows that he chose not to make any move to greet her first –not even casting a polite glance. Among other things, it was Damon's sick, arrogant, obnoxious persona that she grew to love. She loved that he knew he was the best thing that happened in this world, and he considered her like any normal teenage girl that fell head over heels in love with him. Though she would never admit it, Bonnie has her taste for occasional normalcy as well.

She slips quietly on the stool beside him, and anyone from a third person point of view would notice that though there were no greetings of hugs and kisses, that the couple were more than friends –they were lovers. Her body had managed to make itself a living attachment to his (she was like this phantom limb). And it is so _them_, considering their moral compasses always seemed to be miles apart; they were the personification of magnetism –opposites attract and in their case, eventually, make love.

"A long island iced tea for the lady please," Damon tells the bartender, and he raises an eyebrow at Bonnie for glaring at him. "I have a reputation to keep. I'm a twenty-something guy dating a teenager. Give me this."

Bonnie rolls her eyes at the false modesty. When she takes a sip from his glass just as the bartender serves her drink, it was her boyfriend's turn to give her that 'God-you're-so-childish' look. She giggles just because, and he patronizes her by lazily pulling her closer to his side, his arm a perfect lock around her slender shoulders. When he does this –or any sort of public display of affection with her, she always stiffens –not because she didn't trust him, but because she did, and she knew she was handing herself over to him on a silver platter. It took a while for the people of Mystic Falls to wrap their heads around the reality that was 'Bamon', the surprising 'Good girl Bonnie was dating the Bad Guy' or 'Bachelor Extraordinaire was running after Resident Best Friend'. The people were surprised, and they managed to move on, but Bonnie is stuck there, catching herself wondering exactly _why_ they happened, but couldn't think of an answer and liking the mystery of it. Bonnie is certain of two things: she and Damon did not have to make sense, and she loves him.

Though there was this mountain of issues (emotions, magic and other supernatural problems) and insecurities now and then –not to mention Damon's recurring addiction to scheming mischief, Bonnie is pretty much happy. There was that quiet fear that Damon could break her heart, but each day with him made her care less. So be it, then, she thinks every time she kisses him. Bonnie knows that she is more than strong enough to take that risk. She has enough of bitch inside her to make this last for as long as she could.

* * *

The familiar sizzle in Damon's gut flares as he feels Bonnie make her way towards the Grill's entrance. He tries to keep his composure, has to restrain himself from turning around, getting up and escorting her himself to the bar where he sat. He knows that everyone would look at his witch –that was the effect of being a very powerful supernatural, and even if Damon knows he is a territorial, jealous bastard, he still hasn't given in to being labeled 'whipped'. Because every time she was near and they were together (actually, even more so when apart), he ached. In a literal and metaphorical sense, he feels this strange pain in his chest, the consuming need to be with her, to own her, to love her. If ever Bonnie asks him to walk into the sun, he would probably snap her neck just so he could turn her, and then they can walk _together_ to their sunny deaths. But if she asked him to jump, he'd probably ask how high AND do a back-flip, a cartwheel and end his performance dramatically by ascending a murder of crows to the heavens as he spreads his arms wide open, _TA-DAH_: _I am Bonnie Bennett's Bitch. _

From the bar, Damon feels the way her breath hitches –and as much as he would like to feed his ego and think that she did that because she saw him and his glorious sexiness, he knows it is because of the attention she was getting. He had observed how she hated it, having the inevitable pull of attraction from the mere mortals around her, and if only he could tell her that no, nothing was on her face, that she was that way even before she knew she had powers, even if she was with Elena Gilbert. Damon's ears are very much aware of the way her heels click against the floor, each step closer a vibrating beat against his chest, almost how it would probably feel if his heart were still beating (and during these times he wished it did). Damon tries again not to greet her with a fiery kiss, something he usually gives her only in the privates of his bedroom (now, the wet kisses were a different thing). She sits beside him, and he exhales –he does not even know he was holding his breath, and when she leans into him, he feels the desire shoot from his heart to his dick, so he orders her a long island iced tea.

When Bonnie glares at him playfully, he is more than tempted to bite her neck to show her exactly how irritated he is because they weren't alone, that he agreed to meet over here for a date, when all he wanted was to rip her clothes off and have his way with her. But he remembers being so compliant to her touch (he remembers quite vividly just how much he _came_ thanks to her tactics), Bonnie asking him so sweetly that maybe, they should try and be a normal couple and not just have sex whenever they were together. Instead of devouring her, he raises a brow. "I have a reputation to keep. I'm a twenty-something guy dating a teenager. Give me this."

When Bonnie rolls her eyes, Damon knows she means it, but it doesn't mean she didn't feel happy. If there was something he realized he liked doing since they started this whole 'dating' thing, was that he took pride in putting a smile on her face. Making her smile, getting her all fired up, reducing her to this little sexy, begging thing as he stabbed himself deep inside her repeatedly. _Harder, Damon, harder!_ Damon loves the way he has recorded her erotic mewl in his head whenever she gets her _le petite morte_, and he swears no one is allowed to see her that way. Ever. She steals a sip from his glass, and though he acts like he's tired of her antics, he likes that she's being herself –young, energetic, playful and carefree. These little things, her little sweet nothings –Damon craves them like he thirsts for blood; it reminds him why he can never lose her, why he will try his best not to mess things up with Bonnie. If this were his last chance in life (not just love), he was going to make this _fucking_ work. And then she giggles, and he knows exactly just how she owns him. Just like that. With a fucking _giggle_; thanks, bourbon. Unable to help himself any longer, he puts an arm around her, and that's a 'yeah, I'm with her assholes' to the rest of the population in the Mystic Grill, and well, he was aching, remember?

Damon feels her getting that momentary edginess with the contact, and his world freezes as well, then she starts to relax again, leaning more against him, and he knows that she is his for one more blessed day on this god-forsaken earth. Relief floods him like a drug, and he likes it, just like the smell of her subtle lavender shampoo. He forgets his glass of bourbon on the counter, and all he could think about is how warm she is and how he would kill anything that would threaten what he found in Bonnie Bennett. If only she took advantage of her powers to read his thoughts, Bonnie would realize that they weren't just a phase, and they were going to last forever. He was a dick that way, but Damon decides that he is that kind of a dick that gets what he wants. He will make sure of it.

No one was allowed to mess this up. No one was allowed to intervene because Damon fucking Salvatore is the law. If anybody thinks otherwise? They were wrong.

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AN: Credits to Yeah Yeah Yeahs for fic title. Reviews are Bamon love! ;)


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